


Kiss-N-Tell

by Anonymous



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Denial of Feelings, Everybody Lives, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Guilt, M/M, Nicknames, Non-Consensual Kissing, Pining, Post-Endgame, Sharing a Bed, Tony needs better self control, but they work it out in the end, like so many nicknames
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:15:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27142304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: It’s not that Tony’s upset that he’s the last one Peter asks. He’s just confused.After all, it would make sense, wouldn’t it? He knows Peter better than almost anyone. They have a connection. They work together like clockwork cogs, always get each other’s jokes. People make assumptions about them when they’re out in public together. Which is annoying, if a bit flattering for Tony.So why does the kid seem so reluctant to ask Tony to be his boyfriend?His fake boyfriend. That’s what Tony meant. Obviously.
Relationships: Peter Parker/Tony Stark
Comments: 16
Kudos: 302
Collections: Anonymous





	Kiss-N-Tell

It’s not that Tony’s upset that he’s the last one Peter asks. He’s just confused.

After all, it would make sense, wouldn’t it? He knows Peter better than almost anyone. They have a connection. They work together like clockwork cogs, always get each other’s jokes. People make _assumptions_ about them when they’re out in public together. Which is annoying, if a bit flattering for Tony.

He doesn’t want it to fall to him, per se. He’s mostly above field work at this point. It’s just the logical conclusion, is all he’s saying.

So why does the kid seem so reluctant to ask Tony to be his boyfriend?

His fake boyfriend. That’s what Tony meant. Obviously.

They’re at one of the Avengers’ bi-weekly debrief sessions when it comes up. While there are very few situations that require deployment of the whole team, the meetings were Natasha’s idea to make sure that everyone’s up-to-date with the work their teammates are doing. They assure that they aren’t duplicating efforts and that everyone has the resources and support they need. It’s all a bit too kumbaya for Tony’s taste, but he goes anyway, still trying to prove that he can so play well with others. Take _that,_ Nick Fury.

It’s a good sign, Tony thinks, that Peter had something to present to the group this time. Even now that he’s a fully-vested Avenger, he still tends to think like a lone operator. He’ll bring in stats on foiled muggings and bike thefts, and sometimes pictures of a cute kitten he’s rescued from trees and rooftops, but Tony knows most of that is just smoke and mirrors. He gets up to a hell of a lot more.

Peter likes his independence, and he protects his neighborhood with a fierce efficiency that Tony has learned, over the years, not to question.

Nevertheless, he’s pleased when the kid takes his time during debrief to propose a plan that requires actual assistance.

He shuffles to the front of the long glass conference table and explains succinctly. A woman he’d rescued from a mugging last week had offered him some valuable information as thanks. One of her regular clients – a rather influential mafia don – wants to show her off at a charity gala in the Hamptons this weekend. The guy is a post-coital chatterbox, and it turns out the gala is a cover for one-percenters with the need to lay hands on some new high-tech and very under-the-table firepower.

“Seems like it might be the source of the weird plasma guns I’ve seen used in a couple robberies this past month,” Peter says. “Sort of proof-of-concept for the sellers. I’m worried they might be using alien tech.”

“Wait, client?” Steve asks, several steps behind. “Your informant’s an, um, lady of the night?”

Peter snorts.

“A sex worker. Yes, Captain Rogers. She’s good people. I trust her. Trini said she can get me an invite, but I need someone with me to play the money. This seems like the kind of shindig where the buyers like to show off their arm candy, make it a party. If I do the dumb and pretty act, it’ll be easier for me to sneak around and find the records we’ll need to shut the pipeline down.”

It’s a good plan, Tony thinks. He settles back in his chair and waits to be asked. If anybody’s perfect to play the money man, it’s him, right?

“Natasha?” Peter asks, directing his attention to the redhead near the foot of the conference table. “Think you could spare a couple days?”

Tony’s eyebrows crease together in confusion. Natasha leans forward on her elbows, looking at Peter over folded hands.

“Bad idea,” she says.

Tony silently agrees.

“I really don’t think –” Peter protests.

“Look, Peter, you’re new to undercover work,” she cuts him off.

“Yeah, but you’re not.”

Natasha clears her throat meaningfully, obviously displeased at being interrupted.

“You’re new to undercover work. But the key to a good cover is to tell as few lies as possible. Less opportunity for you to get tangled up in your own deception that way.”

“Okay, so?”

“So,” Natasha says. “You’re already going to be pretending to be intimate with someone. I think that also pretending you’re into women might be one too many levels of difficulty for your first time.”

Tony chokes on the sip of coffee he just took, the noise inordinately loud in a lull of conversation. When he looks up, all eyes in the room are on him.

“Sorry,” he mutters. “Tickle in my throat.”

Well, he’s made a scene. But looking around the room, no one else on the team seems even slightly phased by Natasha’s nonchalant announcement that Peter is gay. Tony’s always suspected, but never had confirmation. Did Peter come out to everyone but him? That … That actually stings a bit. he leans back in his chair, crossing his arms grumpily.

Okay, so apparently he doesn’t rate a personal coming-out conversation. That’s fine. He can see how that might be awkward. But surely he’ll be the next choice for Peter after the actual spy. No shame in being second to the undercover expert.

“Fine,” Peter says, scanning the table. “Uh, Captain Rogers?”

“Oh no.”

It’s Bucky who interjects this time, metal hand placed restraingly on Steve’s forearm.

“We decided after last time that Stevie wasn’t gonna do undercover anymore,” he says. “It ain’t exactly his strong suit.”

Tony snorts a little at the memory. Steve on a blind date with the woman they suspected of being Madam Masque had been like something out of a Monty Python sketch, even just listening in on the comms. There is way more variety than Tony could imagine to the ways the word “ma’am” can be deployed.

Of course, it had been only a few weeks later that Steve and Bucky had announced they were dating. Funny how Natasha had given Steve that assignment. She’s gone a little soft ever since the big guy went to Vormir to bring her back.

Peter mouth forms a displeased moue, acknowledging Bucky’s judgment.

“What about you?” he asks Bucky. And, okay, this is just getting annoying.

“Think the assignment might be a little too … Peopley for me, Pete,” he says.

To Tony’s consternation, Peter proceeds around the table. Clint’s headed out tonight on another SHIELD assignment and Rhodey’s got a meeting with the joint chiefs. Bruce and Vision would decidedly _not blend._

Bruce is seated to Tony’s right. He leans back in his chair, spreads his legs like the master of the conference room and prepares to be benevolent despite being a little miffed by the whole process. He gives Peter a sympathetic look, to let him know there are no hard feelings. The spiderling refuses to meet his eyes. Hm.

“I guess I could ask Wade,” he mutters to himself. “He can probably keep things on the DL if I bribe him with enough tacos.”

“Okay, kid. No need to beg. I’m in.”

Honestly, this has gone on long enough. Is Peter afraid to ask him for help? Sure, he’s got a busy schedule, but Tony doesn’t think he’s been subtle about the fact he’d clear it for his favorite intern in a minute.

“Don’t worry about it, Mr. Stark,” Peter says, now distracted flipping through information on his phone. “My budget’s not big, but it can stretch to tacos.”

“Nope.”

Tony pushes his chair back with a dramatic squeak and stands. Finally, Peter looks up from his phone to focus on him, along with everyone else in the room. Is Natasha smirking at him? It feels like she’s smirking.

“I mean, if you insist?” Peter says. “He likes this food truck that usually trolls Greenpoint. Tacos, Tacos, Tacos … Wait. There may be four tacos. It’s a bitch to google.”

His attention wanders back to his phone, and if Tony were a cat, all the hair on his neck would be standing up. What the hell is this?

In lieu of hissing, he snaps his fingers a couple times in Peter’s direction.

“Your attention, spiderling,” he says.

“Huh?”

“Wilson couldn’t keep a secret if you literally sewed his mouth shut. He’d just act it out in mime. I mean I’ll do it. Be your boyfriend.”

Tony spreads his hands magnanimously. Then he sees Peter’s face go red, mouth hanging open like a guppy.

“Your fake boyfriend,” he clarifies. That’s what he meant. Obviously.

“Mr. Stark, I really don’t think-”

“Really no problem, kid,” Tony cuts him off. “I’ll have Pep clear my schedule for this weekend. Also, send you over some new clothes. I mean, we want this to be believable, right? Baggy jeans and flannel don’t exactly scream sugar baby.”

“Sugar baby,” Peter repeats, in a hoarse whisper.

Tony doesn’t stay to hear protests or further input. They’ve wasted enough time on this already. He hits call on Pepper’s name in his phone, and starts arrangements as soon as he hears her pick up.

“Hey, Pep. Need you to handle a few details for me.”

He notices Peter, mouth still hung open, as he heads out the door.

“Don’t worry about it, kid,” he soothes. “You know I’m never too busy to help out. I’ll pick you up tomorrow morning.”

There’s a ruckus as soon as he closes the door. Tony thinks he hears the distinct high-pitched hoot of Natasha’s laugh. His teammates are weird.

###

Tony’s not offended that Peter seems so uncomfortable with his touch just now. Well, he’s trying not to be, but it’s proving difficult.

The kid had been sort of high-strung the entire ride out to East Hampton, leg bouncing nervously despite the beautiful weather – the sunshine turning his skin a burnished peach color and the wind charmingly ruffling his curls.

The convertible had been a good call, Tony thinks. Honest, earnest Peter Parker looks practically sinful sitting there in the new clothes he picked for him. The pale pink linen shirt and ridiculously tight white pants are a real upgrade from his usual jeans and novelty t-shirts.

But looking the part he volunteered to play hasn’t seemed to help his nerves. When Tony reached out and squeezed his knee to stop it from bouncing, he’d stilled dramatically. A few seconds later, he started gnawing on his thumbnail.

Maybe it was just the nature of the mission getting to him. Fair enough. He was much more used to taking down criminals in his mask and spidey suit. This sort of disguise is entirely different, more exposed.

Or maybe it isn’t just the mission, an unhappy voice in Tony’s head whispers. He tries to think back to the last time he put his hands on Peter. It’s not like it’s an unusual occurrence. A slap on the shoulder in congratulations for a successful experiment, a playful ruffle of his hair, a hip-bump out of the way so Tony can take over on a build. None of those made Peter react in any outsized way.

He’d returned the gestures, head lolling onto Tony’s shoulder when they’d spent too many consecutive hours together in the lab, lifting him off his feet in super-powered hugs when presented with a new piece of tech, cold nose pressed to Tony’s neck. It’s always been fine. Perfectly _fine._

So what’s different now?

He wracks his brain, but doesn’t have an answer by the time they arrive at the giant white-columned mansion where the event is taking place. Tony parks the car in the driveway and walks around to open Peter’s door for him. He wraps an arm around his waist and feels the kid’s body stiffen under his touch again.

Immediately, Tony feels guilty. He wants to pull back like he’s been burned, but he’s determined to play his part. So keeps his hold loose as he guides Peter with gentle pressure up the stairs to where a very perky event planner waits with a clipboard and a pasted-on smile.

“I think we’ll have a little rest before dinner if you’ll have the bags brought up … Melinda,” Tony tells the woman as she finds their names on her list and hands them a schedule of events. “Sound good, Poopsie?”

“Um, yes?” Peter replies, voice a little shaky.

“Excellent,” Tony brushes a kiss against Peter’s temple (playing the part, naturally) and Peter jumps like he’s suffered an electric shock.

“Uh,” the kid stammers, staring wide-eyed at Tony while Melinda gives them a curious look over her pink-framed glasses.

“Bee?” Peter offers, turning back to the woman. “I thought I saw a bee.”

“Well, I know how you feel about creepy-crawlies. Let’s go inside, darling.”

Peter nods a little too enthusiastically as a valet comes to escort them to their room.

It’s a suite of rooms, actually. There’s an airy living room looking out over an empty white beach, and an attached bedroom and bathroom through a pair of French doors.

“One bed?” Peter asks after Tony has tipped the valet generously and locked the door behind them.

When he turns around, he finds Peter in the bedroom, staring at the king-sized bed like it just insulted his aunt.

“It would look slightly out-of-character if I asked for a double,” Tony says. “People will think we’re on the rocks, sweetcheeks.”

He means it as a joke, but Peter’s face goes an unflattering shade of red at the endearment.

“Really?” Peter says, scuffing the carpet with his foot and refusing to meet Tony’s gaze. “Sweetcheeks? That’s what we’re going with, sir?”

“I’m open to suggestions,” Tony says. “How do you feel about snookums?”

Peter makes another face.

“Okay, no sookums. Muffin? Angel? Baby?”

“If you call me baby,” Peter says, his mouth forming a straight, serious line. “Then I’m gonna call you Daddy. In public. Loudly.”

Tony’s stomach gives a sickening lurch, and he holds up his hands in defeat. People are going to give him enough grief about Peter’s age without adding that particular nickname to the mix.

“Okay, message received, kid. We’ll play it by ear.”

“Should probably knock it off with the kid, too,” Peter mutters, sitting down on the bed with a huff of displeasure.

“Geeze, you’re a little hardass when you’re undercover, you know that Parker?”

Tony sprawls out on the mattress as well. He doesn’t know what Peter was worried about, because even when they’re both sharing the bed, they’re still a yard apart. He rolls over onto his side and studies Peter’s profile.

“How about you try just my name?” the kid says, eyes on the ceiling, arms folded under his head. “Is that so hard?”

It is a bit. Tony’s out of practice. But he can manage it if he really concentrates.

“Peter,” he says, straining for seriousness. “I can call you by your name if you can do something for me, too.”

Peter curls over on his side, pillowing his cheek with his hand and looking Tony in the face for the first time this whole trip.

“What’s that?” he asks.

“Try not to act like it causes you physical pain every time I touch you. I know it’s not exactly a treat, but it’s part of the cover. We’re gonna have to hold hands, cuddle up a bit. Do we need to practice the kissing?”

Tony’s mouth goes dry at his own joke. Peter’s lips look soft, stained a light pink from where he’s been biting them nervously for half the day. He imagines leaning forward to capture them in his own right now, and the idea sends his stomach swooping in a way that might be pleasant but for the guilt mixed in with all of it.

He doesn’t actually want to kiss Peter, right? It’s just the situation they’re in. The suggestion of it. That, combined with the fact that it’s been far too long since he’s had someone young and nubile in his bed. Well, since he’s had anyone in his bed at all. Come to think of it, it’s been an unusually extended dry spell for him.

“No,” Peter says, interrupting Tony’s thoughts.

“Oh,” Tony counters, concealing the twinge of disappointment he feels that Peter’s past even playing along with his bits right now. Seriously, what has he done to piss the spiderling off? “Well-schooled in the art of kissing then. Fair enough.”

“No,” Peter says again. “I mean yes. Er … I mean, I don’t think kissing will really be necessary.”

“You don’t think that might raise suspicions?” Tony says, pushing because when he gets into a contrary mood he finds it hard to stop, however much his brain is screaming at him to shut up, already. _Seriously, just shut up._

“I mean, touching, yes,” Peter says. “Touching makes sense. But it’s not like anyone’s going to expect us to start making out in public, right? It’s not necessary, so no kissing.”

Ah, so he’s using logic, then. Dammit.

“No kissing,” Tony agrees.

“And I won’t jump the next time you touch me,” Peter says. “I was just getting used to it.”

“Whatever you say, sugar plum.”

###

The first real event of the weekend is a poolside party with hors d’oeuvres, a band, and a silent auction to raise money for the purported charity. Tony honestly forgets what it’s meant to be. Is it puppies? It might be something with puppies. Or medical research. Probably one of those. Maybe he shouldn’t have just skimmed the packet of background information Peter had provided.

Tony guides the kid out of the house and onto the expansive patio with a hand low on his back. He looks stunning in the dove gray suit that Tony picked out for him, shirt open at the neck a button lower than would normally be socially acceptable. The delicate chain it reveals with a calligraphy “s” charm is a gaudy, on-the-nose addition, but it does have the benefit of loudly screaming _Sugar Baby_ for all to hear. Tony regrets it right up until they get outside and he surveys the crowded patio. Yeah, Peter’s informant had been right about the nature of the men who got invited to this thing. They’re definitely here at least in part to show off their companions. Not subtly at all. The amount of bling and cleavage on display is really quite stunning.

On one hand, Tony admires it. On the other, he’s worried he went a bit too low-key with Peter’s costuming. He’s glad he brought back-up diamonds, but it’s probably too late for them to be deployed tonight. So other means must suffice.

Tony grabs a champagne flute for Peter while the kid casually peruses the trays of food passing by them. Or pretends to. Tony knows when Peter squeezes his hand, curled possessively around his hip, that he’s spotted his contact.

Tony releases Peter to wander over to her as casually as possible and makes his own way to the bar for something non-alcoholic to drink. Elbow against the counter while the bartender pours a disappointing seltzer with lemon, Tony surveys the group and is unsurprised to realize he knows most of them. The community surrounding the weapons pipeline has always been small, and it doesn’t seem like there’s been much turnover since he was around them. A few younger faces where sons have replaced fathers, a few upstarts trying to cut their teeth, but all as expected.

When his drink comes, he meanders over to extricate Peter from Trini and her date. She’s a petite bottle blonde and he’s maybe a few inches shy of hulk-sized with no discernible neck and scowl for anyone who isn’t his lovely companion. His face, though, is familiar. Tony knows him. Or, well, probably his father. Howard did business with the family back in the day.

Tony shudders internally at that realization. This guy does not look like the kind of person into whose beefy hands you want to put high-tech weaponry, much less alien high-tech weaponry. He’s grateful Peter caught onto this before anything has been widely distributed.

Tony smiles blandly and shakes hands when he’s introduced to the couple before pulling Peter away, figuring the best way to circulate and eavesdrop is to literally circulate.

“Alright, Mr. Parker,” he says. “May I have this dance?”

Peter chokes on a sip of his champagne, then his eyes go wide when Tony doesn’t laugh along.

“What, like seriously?” he says. “I don’t really do the dancing. I’m more of an awkwardly stand on the edges of the party type.”

“Maybe,” Tony says, skeptically because there’s absolutely no way that someone who swings as gracefully as Peter does can’t dance. “But you’re not you right now. You’re my pumpkin.”

Peter scowls at the nickname, but allows himself to be divested of snacks and drink, and pulled into a dance. The band plays quietly enough to allow conversation. _Holding hands at midnight ‘neath the starry sky. Nice work if you can get it, and you can get it if you try_ …

They don’t dance really, just sway to the rhythm. Under normal circumstances, Tony thinks, this would be romantic. The light from the large white lanterns hung overhead is reflected off the pool in an aquatic aquamarine. There’s a breeze blowing salty off the ocean, and the stars above are bright and pin-sharp. Peter does start out stiff and awkward in his hold, but as the song continues the kid loops his arms more comfortably around his neck and his body sags forward, pressing their chests together while Tony leads them around the dance floor.

_Nice work if you can get it, and if you get it, won’t you tell me how?_

He reaches down and pushes a lock of hair off of Peter’s forehead, letting his thumb skim along one eyebrow. They’re always so unruly those eyebrows, little hairs refusing to stay in place for long. Tony always wants to smooth them down, but he never wants them to stay that way. His heartbeat stutters.

He does actually want to kiss Peter, doesn’t he? Has for a long time. Possibly to the exclusion of anyone else. He’s so fucked …

“Anthony!”

Even before he recognizes the voice and puts two and two together, Tony instinctively pushes Peter away. He doesn’t want anyone he knows to see this particular moment of vulnerability. The kid stumbles, surprised at the sharp turn of events, and they go through a bit of a scuffle before Tony’s able to turn toward the approaching figure with one arm wrapped comfortably around Peter’s waist.

“Justin,” Tony greets, keeping his voice bland and calm with great effort. “What a nice surprise. And here I thought you were still a guest at Riker’s.”

“Time off for good behavior,” Justin Hammer replies through a giant cheesy grin. “Well, that and some generous donations to a few of the warden’s pet projects.”

Tony hopes the sound of him grinding his teeth can’t be discerned through his returning smile.

“You always did have a way of wriggling out of those things,” he says.

If Hammer notices the bite behind his words, he doesn’t give any sign.

“It’s good to see you here, Anthony. Norman kept saying we’d never get you back in the fold, but I always knew you’d get tired of playing the hero eventually.”

“Well, you know how it is,” Tony says with a shrug. “Doesn’t exactly pay to play nice, does it?”

“It does not,” Hammer says, patting Tony forcefully on the back.. “But I’ll tell you what, Anthony, the gorgeous ladies I’ve got lined up for us to look at later tonight are going to pay plenty.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” Tony says. “I hear you’ve got an out-of-this-world selection for us.”

“I think even a man as well-traveled as you will be impressed.”

Tony could choke on the oil rolling off Hammer as he makes his sales pitch. They hold each other’s gaze for an uncomfortably long beat, sharing smiles so big that his jaw begins to ache. The stand-off is only interrupted when Peter clears his throat, reminding Tony of his presence. he takes the hint.

“Justin, can I introduce you to my date, Peter?” he says, pulling the kid a little closer into his side.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Hammer,” Peter says, adding a little simper to his words and batting his long lashes suggestively in Hammer’s direction while he extends his hand. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

Tony can see Hammer’s eyes raking over every inch of Peter’s form, and the spark of envy there makes something warm and possessive bloom in his chest.

“Good things I hope, baby,” Hammer says, winking at Peter. “Anthony, I’ve got to hand it to you. You may rob cradles, but at least you’ve got a good eye.”

Tony ignores the dig, and instead pointedly moves his hand from Peter’s waist to his neck, stroking his hand down his jugular and hooking the delicate gold chain around his pinky. He can feel the muscles in the kid’s neck tense at the action, but at least he doesn’t react outwardly.

“Hmmm,” he hums agreement. “My taste is always impeccable, Justin. You should know that. Now, if you’ll excuse us, I promised my princess here another dance. I’ll see you later?”

“Eleven o’clock in the billiards room,” Justin says with a nod.

And with that, Tony whisks Peter away into a slow dance, ignoring the face he makes at the new appellation.

“Stay in character,” he whispers, accompanied by a grin and a light pinch to Peter’s side. “You’re supposed to be dumb and adoring.”

Peter’s face flashes with a moment of menacing calculation before melting back with alarming ease into something innocent and doe-like.

“Oh _Daddy_ ,” he says loud enough for the entire party to hear him over the music and the chatter. “You’re so good to me.”

###

Tony trails quietly back into the guest room well after one in the morning, brain spinning with the display he’s just seen. The idea of what could happen if anyone with truly ill intention gets their hands on such weapons blooms bright and stomach-churning behind his eyes every time he blinks.

Peter was right. It’s definitely modified alien tech. Tony’s not sure how anyone got their hands on this type of technology. Maybe one of Thanos’ minions dropped something, maybe someone’s been holding onto something since the New York invasion. Whatever happened, the end result is terrifying and adds a new urgency to their mission. He wants to know who’s been adapting this stuff, because it’s sure as hell beyond Justin Hammer’s capabilities.

He’s surprised to find Peter awake when he drags his feet into the bedroom, but then they’re both more than a little susceptible to poor sleeping patterns.

“Hey, kid,” he says, scrubbing at his face with one hand to banish some of the exhaustion that’s crept into his bones over the course of the last few hours.

Peter, perched on the end of the bed with his legs crossed, mutes the TV and looks at him with eyebrows scrunched together in concern.

“What happened?” he says.

Tony lays it out for him, all of the weaponry that Justin displayed for them, the dangerous faces he recognized in the crowd, the bidding process that will take place at the gala tomorrow night.

“I’m shocked they let you into that meeting,” Peter says when he’s finished info-dumping and has collapsed into the mattress face first.

Tony grumbles into his pillow, then rolls onto his side so he can look down the length of the bed at the kid. He looks like he’s been napping in Tony’s absence, dressed in a Henley that comes down over his hands and plaid pajama pants, hair mussed and fuzzing out at all angles in a soft halo. A part of Tony wants to bury his face in Peter’s neck and breath in his Irish Spring and laundry detergent smell. Luckily, he recognizes that for the destructive instinct it is before he tries it.

“Why shocked?” he says, flippantly. “You thought my charm offensive wouldn’t work? I can be charming.”

“That’s not the problem,” Peter says with a roll of his eyes. “It’s just … They all know you’re Iron Man, right? You did kind of announce it to the world. You’re a hero. You’d think they’d want to keep the under-the-table weapons deals to themselves.”

Sincerity shines out of his face when he says it. _You’re a hero._ And damn, does Tony want to believe that. But Peter is so young – all fresh and shiny and new – and he doesn’t know a Tony Stark sans Iron Man. He doesn’t realize that everything good Tony’s done is being weighed against an insurmountable amount of bad, doesn’t know anything about the horrors Tony created before he had his come to Jesus moment in Afghanistan, or the carelessness with which he treated them.

Natasha sometimes talks about having red in her ledger, and Tony likes to think of it as one of the things that bonds them – the knowledge that no matter how much they paid back to the world, the red would always be there, seeping out and leaving a stain.

Though maybe sacrificing yourself for the universe changes that now. That’s got to wipe out a hell of a lot of red, even with the subsequent resurrection factored in. Maybe if things had gone differently for him ...

“You never knew me before the whole Iron Man thing,” he tells Peter, forcefully keeping his tone light. “But most of the people here did. They knew me as Tony Stark, Merchant of Death for a lot longer than I’ve been anything else. For them, Iron Man always seemed like a temporary lark. It was something I’d be amused by for a while until I got bored and moved onto the next distraction. Same as I did with Maxim cover models or the party drug of the week. All I’m doing now is proving them right. So why should they question it?”

“A lark?”

When Peter speaks, it sounds like something’s caught in his throat.

Tony could do it. Explain to Peter that he doesn’t really know him at all. Cut himself open and scrape out all the nasty bits for a proper display. But it’s been a long day, and he’s exhausted. Some other time, he thinks. He’ll fully disillusion the kid some other time. For now, he basks in the warmth Peter’s indignation.

He presses his palms against his eyes until he sees sparks, and goes for misdirection instead.

“I don’t know why you let me come if you thought I’d be found out immediately.”

Peter shrugs.

“I figured if nothing else, you could distract everyone while I found what we needed.”

“Oh ye of little faith,” Tony says. “But you’re right. I can be very distracting. Now tell me what you’ve been up to.”

Peter talks while Tony manages to push himself up off the very comfortable mattress so he can strip out of his suit and get ready for bed. The kid’s been busy while Tony was schmoozing with villains. He snuck out to the garages to put trackers on most of the vehicles and found the room that Hammer uses as an office. odds are that’s where they’ll find all the records they need. The hitch is that it’s both guarded and locked down with a nine-digit code.

“So we really will need a good distraction,” Peter says. “Enough of one to give me time to break the code.”

“I think I can arrange that,” Tony says, emerging from the bathroom after brushing his teeth and changing into pajama pants. “Maybe during the big party tomorrow night? Most of the firepower will be focused on the guests at that point anyway. No way Hammer trusts anybody here further than he can throw them.”

The last part of his sentence is muffled as he pulls his undershirt off over his head. It’s been years since he got the arc reactor removed, but he still feels like his chest overheats in the night if he wears a shirt to bed. One of those weird psychosomatic things.

“Sounds … Good.”

When Tony looks up, Peter’s staring at him with wide, alarmed eyes.

“Everything okay, kid?” he asks.

Peter swallows, and Tony zeros in on the bob of his Adam’s apple.

“Y-yep,” he says. “All good.”

Tony nods.

“You ready for lights out?” he asks, climbing into his side of the bed.

Peter’s scrambles up to the head of the bed on his side and gets under the covers, laying on his back and staring with determination up at the ceiling, arms stiff and straight at his sides.

“S-sure,” he says. “Goodnight, Mr. Stark.”

They don’t talk once the light flicks out, but Tony can hear Peter breathing in the dark, rough at first but growing steadier and steadier. They’re too far away for Tony to actually feel the heat from the other man’s body, but he can sense his weight as a depression in the mattress. The combination of those things are oddly soothing.

Before he properly thinks it through, Tony reaches out across the wide expanse of mattress and places a hand on Peter’s bare forearm, the skin there warm and soft. He hears the kid suck in a shaky breath, and it’s enough to snap him out of whatever trance he’s fallen into.

Tony pulls his hand back sharply and folds it under his head.

“Night, Pete,” he whispers into the dark.

###

A pale, early-morning light fills the room when Tony wakes the next morning, shocked out of sleep by a nightmare he can’t quite remember. He sits up straight in bed with a gasp, reaching out across the cold mattress for something that isn’t there.

“Tony?”

Peter’s voice comes not from beside him, but from across the room. He sits at the heavy cherry wood desk by the window.

“Fine,” Tony says. “I’m fine. Just a nightmare.”

“Yeah, I get those too.”

Tony would ask if the kid had one last night too, but he’s beginning to suspect that he never slept at all. There are bruises under Peter’s eyes, the shadow of dark stubble on his chin, only highlighted by how wan he looks in the dawn light.

Tony’s eyes skate over the mattress to the place where Peter purportedly slept to find the blankets barely disturbed.

“Have you been up all night?” he asks, voice still rough with sleep.

“Couldn’t get to sleep,” he says. “I’ve been working on some formulas.”

Tony scrubs a hand through his hair and reaches for his glasses on the bedside table. He motions to Peter to pass over the starkpad in his hand.

“Let’s see it.”

Instead of handing over the calculations for Tony’s review, he shuffles awkwardly in his chair and puts the device away in a desk drawer.

“Not much to show yet,” he says. “No breakthroughs.”

He won’t look at Tony, and his movements are jittery from nerves, or lack of sleep, or both. In a flash, Tony remembers last night, reaching out to touch Peter and the gasp of the kid’s breath in response. Maybe Peter didn’t sleep last night because he couldn’t do so next to him, because he didn’t trust him to keep his fucking hands to himself.

He doesn’t want to fight with Peter right now, even if he does deserve a thorough dressing-down. The tensions building between them feels upsettingly familiar.

The only real fight they’ve had since the whole ferry incident when Peter was 15 had come just a few months ago, an effort by Peter to get Tony to back off already. There’s an uncomfortable pattern there that Tony doesn’t really want to examine.

He knows he can’t expect the same hero worship he got from the kid when he recruited him to come to Germany. In truth, he doesn’t want that. But he also hadn’t wanted Peter to need so much distance between them that he had tried to return the Spider-Man suit that Tony made for him.

“I don’t need you to bankroll me, Mr. Stark,” Peter had said, trying to press the suit into Tony’s hands.

He’d recoiled from the gesture like it was a slap. In a way, it was.

“I bankroll all the Avengers, kid,” Tony spat back. “You’re a part of the team, so you might as well get used to it. You think Steve can afford vibranium shield repairs or Clint could keep himself in trick arrows without me signing the checks?”

Tony’s voice was raised in anger, but Peter, infuriatingly, had kept his tone low and steady.

“That isn’t what I want from you, sir.”

As he said it, he laid the crumpled suit down on one of the work benches. Tony had spent days in the lab creating a textile that would provide Peter with protection from the elements while being supple enough to bend and flex in accordance with his fighting style.

There had been a clink, and the thin metal web-shooters he’d designed to go with the suit were laid down beside it. Tony was missing half the print on his right index finger from a burn when he was soldering them together. He’d put sweat and blood into Peter’s equipment to make sure he was prepared for anything. To make sure he was safe.

“It’s not a punishment,” Peter had said. “I just don’t want us to owe each other anything. I want us to be on even ground.”

Tony had had to choke back the bile in his throat. As though they could ever be even.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Peter asked, and he realized that he’d spoken aloud.

The nightmare images had flashed behind Tony’s eyes for perhaps the hundred thousandth time – himself coming out with the ending line to beat all ending lines, prepared to snap his fingers and send Thanos back to dust like he deserved, and then Peter ripping the makeshift gauntlet from his hand and doing the job himself. The molten fire that had burned across Peter’s body, leaving him bloody and on the brink of death, the hours spent watching him heal. Slowly. So slowly.

Tony had swallowed all those memories down and let them churn into a toxic, acidic soup in his gut.

“Suit’s worth about five million, if you don’t factor in the dividends I’m making from the material patents that came out of it. I grant you, there are a number of people who’d say my life is worth a lot less than that. But even with the bum knee and the slightly scrambled brains, I’d say $5 million is a great deal. So let’s call it an even trade, shall we?”

“Tony …” Peter said, but he’d already turned away. He couldn’t look at the kid without seeing seared flesh. He needed a drink.

“We’re square, kid,” he said pausing at the door. “You don’t owe me anything.”

When he’d wandered back down to the lab hours later, the suit had been gone, and Peter hadn’t suggested giving it back again.

Peter keeps pulling away from him, and Tony keeps tugging him back in even though he knows better. If he keeps it up, whatever’s holding them together has to snap and break, right?

“C’mon,” Peter says, standing and stretching. “Let’s get ready. I need about a gallon of coffee if I’m going to make it through the day.”

Maybe not today, though, Tony thinks. Maybe not just yet.

###

Later that afternoon, Tony soaks up the sun from a lounge chair near the pool, a sweating jug of iced coffee on the low table between his chair and Peter’s. There’s not a lot they can do before tonight except act natural, but Tony is making notes for Natasha on everyone he recognizes, and Peter is using his supersonic spidey hearing to eavesdrop for any useful or interesting tidbits.

Every few minutes or so Peter will reach out and touch him – looping his fingers through Tony’s and squeezing or trailing a hand down his bare shoulder. To keep up appearances. Because they’re supposed to be a couple. No matter how much he braces for it, it makes Tony nearly jump out of his skin every time.

But those tiny little jolts of panic are nothing compared to what Tony feels when Peter moves suddenly and swiftly to straddle his legs. Before he can so much as squeak out a protest, Peter’s got his knees bracing Tony’s thighs, leaning forward on his elbows so that his chest is pushed forward into Tony’s face. The conflicting signals of not wanting to touch Peter for fear of retribution and a desire to lick the muscles suddenly presented to him short circuits his brain for a minute.

“Wha?” Tony manages to say, looking up into Peter’s face with what has to be a dazed expression.

“Shh,” he whispers. “I’m trying to get a bead on Hammer. He’s on the phone with someone. Sounds mad.”

Then, in a louder, poutier voice he says.

“Rub some sunscreen on my back, please, babe. I don’t want to burn.”

While Peter twists his head from side to side, trying to catch all of Hammer’s phone conversation, Tony fumbles embarrassingly with the bottle of sunscreen on the ground. He tries to focus on the job. Peter’s hearing must be damn good, because he can’t hear anything from Hammer at all, just a jumble of chatter from loungers around the pool.

Carefully and quietly as possible, Tony squirts some sunscreen into his palm, rubs it between his hands for a few seconds to warm it, and then moves to Peter’s back. He starts with the shoulders, the muscles there firm and sun-warmed. Tony can’t help but linger a little, try to work out a few of the knots he feels.

The kid’s got to be under a lot of stress, because some of these knots are stubborn as fuck. He digs his thumb into a particularly large one, and feels Peter shift and stretch, catlike. The kid’s ass is hovering over a very unfortunate part of Tony’s anatomy, and if he keeps up the moving and the little half-voiced groans, this is gonna get real awkward real quick.

“Stop moving,” Tony warns him, and from above him Peter shoots him a quelling look and pinches his side.

“Then you move on,” he says under his breath.

Obediently, Tony does. He smoothes his hands down Peter’s sides, pausing when he reaches the band of his swim trunks and rubbing sunscreen into the small of Peter’s back, swirling his thumbs into the entrancing little dimples on either side of his spine.

He feels a shiver run through the kid’s body, and when he dares look back up into Peter’s face his eyes are half closed and his lips parted softly, as though preparing for a kiss. He frowns when he notices Tony looking.

“Stop being distracting,” Peter hisses.

“I thought that was my job, baby boy,” Tony replies with a grin.

For a second, Peter’s mouth just hangs open in disbelief, and Tony thinks maybe this is it. The shouting will start now. But instead, Peter places a finger over his lips to keep him from talking and tilts his head to one side.

They hold in silence for a long moment before Peter gives a concise nod, and then pushes himself up off of Tony in one graceful movement. Tony immediately misses the body heat.

Peter throws his towel over his shoulder and turns his head to look at Tony.

“I think I’m ready for some alone time, aren’t you?” he says, batting his lashes.

“Mr. Stark,” he says once they’re back in their room. “Have you ever heard of someone named Ivan Vanko?”

So, Tony thinks, that’s who’s responsible for designing Hammer’s weapons. He knew for damn sure he wasn’t doing it himself. Granted, Vanko is supposed to be dead, but Tony’s well past being surprised at things like that.

“Yeah,” he tells Peter. “Yeah, I know him. It’s a good thing we’re ending this tonight.”

###

“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon,” Peter urges, face shoved directly over Tony’s shoulder so they can both see the screen.

“I am hacking as fast as a hacker can hack, Parker.”

It’s not like Hammer’s system is impenetrable or anything, but these things do take time. The explosions Tony arranged started going off about 10 minutes ago. It took less than a minute for Peter to crack Hammer’s security code after the guards had abandoned the place – part spidey senses, part mathematical probability – but who knows how long they’ll actually have before they decide to circle back to their posts.

Peter snorts.

“You’re a hacker now, huh? A real rebel. Sticking it to the man,” Peter says. “You missed the—“

“I see it. And is making fun of me really helping right now?”

“Sometimes I find it calming to mock you.”

“Yeah, no wonder you’re so Zen.”

“You dropped a line,” Peter points out.

“Yes,” Tony says through bared teeth. “I see it.”

He hits a few more keys, gives the data a few minutes to download, then jerks the USB drive out of the computer.

“Alright,” he says, tucking the drive into his inner jacket pocket and grabbing Peter by the hand. “We got it. Let’s get a move on kid.”

Their shoes squeak on the polished parquet floors. Both of them are in tuxes, having made a brief appearance at the gala before Tony’s fireworks display popped off. But Peter has lost his bowtie somewhere along the way, and Tony’s jacket is wrinkled and unruly. They don’t exactly look respectable, even if they weren’t in a completely off-limits part of the house, is the point.

But they haven’t seen anyone else yet, and Tony’s just about thinking that they might get away that easy, when he feels Peter grip his hand harder. He hears footsteps just a few moments later. Well, fuck. There really is no explaining this. They’re going to have to fight their way out. Tony gets a flash of what those tricked-out alien guns could do to human flesh, specifically Peter’s, and decides another plan is in order.

The footsteps are getting closer, running by the sound of it, but it just takes a matter of seconds for Tony to push Peter up against the wall and crowd in. A tiny part of his brain is calculating how soon the bleeding edge armor can make a shield at his back, and he instinctively cages his arms around the kid’s body.

“Tony?” Peter says, somehow questioning and cautioning at the same time.

“Do you trust me, kid?” he asks, face so close to Peter’s that he can see the tiny flecks of green in his big brown eyes.

“I trust you,” Peter replies without hesitation, and that kind of seals it.

It’s not only that Tony’s wanted to do this for longer than he cares to admit, or that he’s been unhealthily fixated on it since Peter refused him yesterday. It’s also a good plan. The best last-minute plan he’s got that doesn’t involve a firefight. But he knows that’s not the only factor – can sense that tension between them stretched so close to snapping – even as leans forward and presses his lips to Peter’s.

There’s an endless moment where Peter’s body is taut, his lips tight and unyielding. Then Tony brings a hand up to his throat, running his thumb along the juncture between neck and jaw, and the kid melts. His mouth unfurls, and Tony licks his way in and swallows down the breathy groan that Peter lets out.

There’s tongues twisting together, and hot breath, and just a tiny hint of teeth. Enough to make it interesting. Perfection, even before Peter presses the full length of his body against Tony’s and wraps one leg around his hip.

Tony wants to mark him up, to suck a line of possessive bruises down his pale throat, to stake his claim unmistakably. The only thing that keeps him from doing it is that he’d have to remove his lips from Peter’s to do it, and at the moment that’s unthinkable.

“Hey, this is a restricted area!”

The shock of the guard’s voice does, finally, pull Tony’s mouth away from Peter’s with a wet pop. He’d half forgotten the instigating factor behind the kiss, too caught up in the moment. When he looks down, Peter’s face is floaty, his pupils blown wide. He smiles up at Tony dreamily with pink, bitten lips.

Then something changes, his body going instantly stiff and tight. It only takes a millisecond for his expression to shift, like the kid’s shaking off the world’s shortest trip. Peter’s eyes shutter, his mouth thins, and he adopts a look of utter blankness.

Cold washes over him, and Tony’s heart is pounding triple time. But he pulls himself together enough to turn to the guard looming at them.

“Sorry, buddy. We just needed a little, uh, privacy. You know how it is.”

“Rich bastards,” he hears the guard mutter under his breath.

“Excuse me?” Tony says, taking a step back from Peter and pushes his glasses down the bridge of his nose to give the man an imperious glare. When in doubt, act like an asshole. “I didn’t quite catch that.”

“There’s been a perimeter breach, sir,” the guard says. “All of the guests are being evacuated while we secure the house.”

“Right,” Tony says. “Not that I would expect much better from one of Justin’s operations. Let’s go, sweetness.”

It’s only a mild relief when Peter actually takes the hand he offers. The cold, blank look still suffuses his face.

“Better take me somewhere more private, big boy,” Peter says, flirtatious tone in complete dissonance with his look. “We wouldn’t want to cause a scene.”

It really is a simple as walking out, through a crowd of disgruntled gala guests in their finest. Tony even has the time to shoot Justin Hammer a mocking salute as he opens the passenger side door of the convertible for Peter.

Peter calls Natasha on the drive back into the city to let her know the job is done, and to arrange a time to drop off the intel they gathered. There’ll be series of raids over the next week to wrap everything up, but the paper trail is solid. Hammer’s going back to jail, and so is Ivan Vanko as soon as they can find him. Not bad work for a weekend.

“Thanks, Nat. We can arrange next steps Monday morning. Have a good night.”

It’s the last he speaks for the remainder of the drive into Queens, despite Tony’s attempts to draw him into inane chatter about the crap songs on the radio, or how all the worst drivers have Connecticut license plates.

The closest he gets to actual acknowledgement is a terse nod when Tony parks illegally right in front of Peter’s apartment building in Queens.

Fine. He wants to play that way, Tony can do that. Peter goes to stand by the car trunk, but Tony refuses to open it. He gets out of the car, slamming the door with way more force than is warranted, then jostles the kid out of the way so he can be the one to grab his bag out of the back.

Throwing the strap over his shoulder, he raises one eyebrow in Peter’s direction to see if he’ll get any response, but he only turns and stomps up the stairs to the building entrance, and then up six more flights. Tony doggedly follows behind, his anger growing with every step he takes.

When they reach the door of Peter’s corner apartment, the kid turns with a huff and holds his hand out for his bag.

“Seriously?” Tony says, placing a protective hand over the strap of the bag. “You’re that mad at me? Over one stupid kiss?”

He sees Peter clench his jaw tight, all the muscles in his neck bulging. He swallows.

“I’m not mad,” he says, voice chilly and controlled. “I’m hurt, and disappointed, and … and mad.”

“Finally he speaks!”

“Oh, believe me Tony Stark, you do not want me to talk right now,” he says, and Tony takes a childish pleasure in making him raise his voice at last. “That’s been for your benefit, asshole.”

“Well, don’t spare my feelings, sweetheart,” he spits. “Let’s hear it.”

“Will you stop?” Peter’s hands fly up to tug angrily at his own hair. “You can’t just … We’re not playacting anymore, okay?”

“Fine! But I was only doing what you wanted. Playing the part. And trying to keep us from getting shot. You’re right. What a monster.”

“It wasn’t what I wanted,” Peter shouts back at him. “I didn’t ask you to come along at all. You just pushed your way in and invited yourself. You never ask. You just do, and everyone’s supposed to be grateful.”

“So what, you’d rather have Steve Rogers pretend to be your boyfriend? The man who blushes every time he attempts to tell a lie? Or the grumpy raccoon man who only speaks in monosyllable? Sure. That would have gone well.”

“At least they would have listened when I said – “

“It was an emergency!” Tony protests. “Not exactly my first choice, but someone had to think quickly.”

“I said no kissing, and you couldn’t abide by even one boundary,” Peter continues on stubbornly, through gritted teeth.

“Of course,” Tony says, arms flapping out wide and exasperated. “Heaven forbid you be tainted by someone like me. The horror!”

“You are being deliberately obtuse!” Peter shouts.

“And you are being a child!” 

Tony wants to reel the words back into his mouth as soon as they’re out, but he’s too heated up to stop himself. Not even the way Peter’s eyes go the tiniest bit swimmy can stop him from powering on like a fucking freight train.

“Sometimes needs must, kid,” he says, voice still far too loud. “Someday maybe you’ll understand that. But whatever. You wanna be mad, be mad.”

“Fine!” Peter shouts.

“Fine!” Tony concurs.

He wrestles out of the strap of the bag, practically throws it at the kid’s feet, and then turns on a heel and stalks away.

The fumes of his anger carry him on autopilot down the stairs, out the building and down the block. He’s got enough steam to push him into the first bar he notices with its neon sign on, up to the bar and onto a stool muttering “I do too have boundaries,” to himself.

The whiskey glass is at his lips before he gets a good whiff of the liquor and remembers he doesn’t drink anymore. Petulantly, he slams the glass back down onto the counter earning an irritated look from the bartender.

“Fuck,” he says, pressing his palms hard against his eyes. “Fuck fuckity fuck.”

Tony doesn’t drink anymore. He doesn’t drink. Which means he either has to deal with the way he’s feeling right now stone cold sober or … Or he has to go apologize to Peter and deal with the consequence of his actions.

“Fuck,” he says one more time, just to get it out of his system.

He leaves a big tip for the bartender for his trouble, then slinks out of the bar he should never have gone into anyway.

Tony’s feet feel heavy as he makes his way back to Peter’s apartment, letting it sink in just how much he’s screwed things up. All the anger has seeped out of his body now. He was only ever angry at himself anyway. For being unable to resist pulling that thread, for forcing it to snap. Was he that confident in himself and his own prowess? Or did he just want to end it because it became too much to bear? 

He wonders if there’s any way for him to scavenge even a superficial friendship out of the rubble now. It seems doubtful.

Tony stands for far too long just staring at the crooked 616 on Peter’s apartment door before he works up the nerve to knock on the door and then step back.

It takes long enough for the lock to click open on the door that Tony wonders if Peter’s just going to ignore him. Not that he wouldn’t deserve that, but if he doesn’t answer he’ll have to stick around in this hallway all night, and that’s not going to do his back any favors.

When the door finally does open, Tony steps back further until his back is pressed against the opposite wall. Peter’s eyes are red and his skin is flushed with the heat of a recent shower, hair still damp. He looks soft and vulnerable in a Columbia t-shirt and pajama pants, and his head tilts slightly downward like it’s an effort to keep it upright.

“What –” Peter says softly, but Tony cuts him off with a hand held up.

A weighty silence builds between them, one where Tony can’t pull his eyes from the way Peter’s hands clench and then unclench around the hem of his shirt.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I fucked up, Pete. I know I did. You set really simple rules, and I didn’t bother to take them seriously. That’s … Unacceptable. I know it. And I’m sorry. For whatever that’s worth.”

“Then why’d you do it?” Peter asks, still not really raising his head to meet Tony’s eyes. He’s staring at a stain on the hallway carpet.

Tony sucks in a breath at the question. He somehow wasn’t expecting it. Why did he do it? _Because I’m an asshole_ doesn’t really seem to cover it, and he knows that, if anything, he owes Peter complete honesty right now.

“Because I wanted to,” he says, hoping Peter won’t hear the way his voice cracks at the admission. “You wonder why I ignore all those boundaries you try to set with me, kid, and the answer’s actually real simple. It’s because I don’t want them to exist. Any of them.”

Of course it’s then that Peter actually raises his head to look at him, the intensity of it knocking Tony back on his feet. He smacks the back of head gently against the wall. Is that disappointment? Fear? Anger? He can’t tell.

“I know how monstrous that sounds,” he says, hoarsely. “Believe me, no one’s more familiar with my myriad moral failings than I am. I never had any impulse control, and I’ve always been too rich and important to be forced to learn any.”

“Tony,” Peter says, but he’s not done just yet.

“No,” he says. “I – I mean I know that’s not your problem. Obviously. But just … I can’t take any of it back. But I am sorry, and I won’t do it again. And I can make it so you don’t have to deal with me in the future. I’ll let Nat know not to put us on missions together anymore, and we can work out a custody agreement for the lab.”

“Tony.”

“You’re right,” Tony concedes. Now that he’s started, he’s finding it hard to stop talking. “You can have the lab. Bots like you better anyway. I’ll build myself something new. Maybe in the basement. That seems appropriate, right? But the point is, I’m not gonna make a nuisance of myself anymore. Also, if you tell anyone on the team about what I did, they’ll definitely choose you over me. Which isn’t like a plea or anything. All I mean is, you’ll get the kids in the divorce. Er. You know what I mean.”

“Look,” Peter starts when Tony finally runs out of breath, but Tony doesn’t let him finish, now certain he knows exactly how that sentence will end. He sucks in more air.

“I’m really fucking sorry, Pete,” he finishes lamely.

Peter clenches his fists tight and lets out a frustrated sound along the lines of “Arghnhngg!”

“Sometimes,” he says, when his ability to form actual words seems to be restored. “You are so dumb I want to strangle you.”

“I mean, if physical violence is gonna help, I can take a few hits?” Tony offers, which doesn’t seem to have the desired effect, as it starts up another round of non-words from Peter.

“You’re an idiot,” he says vehemently.

“Granted.”

“You think I want boundaries? They’re for my own sanity, you absolute dummy.”

“I— What?”

“No,” Peter says, holding up an imperious finger. “You don’t talk now.”

Tony waits, confused, with his heart in his throat while Peter pauses to collect himself. When he’s finally able to compose himself, he stands up to his full height and looks Tony directly in the eyes.

“I didn’t want you to kiss me because I wanted our first kiss to be special,” he says, each word clear and precise. “Not part of some stupid mission. Not faked to throw off some B-level villain’s minions. Can you understand that?”

Tony’s brain clicks into sudden and unaccustomed silence. It whirrs like an old-fashioned recorder that’s run out of tape. A vague picture starts to form.

“First kiss,” he says slowly. “Implies the possibility of secondary kisses.”

“Amazing deductive reasoning,” Peter says.

Tony’s entire body feels like a livewire. Without any conscious thought, he steps forward. But Peter holds up a hand to stop him, and he jerks back like he’s a dog and someone is pulling on his leash.

“Not now,” he says, with a roll of his eyes. “I’m still mad at you.”

“But … You could forgive me? Maybe? If I’m on my very best behavior?”

Peter leans back against his door and lets a lazy smile spread across his face. He’s so beautiful that Tony’s chest aches to look at him. He brings a hand up to cover his mouth, wipe the smile away, but it still lingers at the corners of his lips.

“I might be persuadable,” he says. “But I want you to take me out on a proper date. And ask permission if you want to kiss me. And respect my answer when I give it … Tony? Are you listening to me?”

Tony looks up at him from his phone where he’s scanning his schedule for conflicts that he can’t talk his way out of. Peter’s face looks so hurt when he looks up that he has to chide himself.

“I’m listening,” he says, as warmly as he can. “I’m just … You said special. Special takes planning. I’ll probably be busy with loose ends from this mission all week, but how does Saturday sound?”

He’d like to do sooner, but he wants to be able to give Peter his full attention.

“Saturday,” Peter nods. “I can do Saturday.”

“Good,” Tony says. “Is your passport up to date?”

“Passport?”

“You know what, doesn’t matter. Like customs is gonna bug me of all people. Saturday. I’ll pick you up at nine. Clear your day.”

Tony allows himself to just grin at the kid stupidly for a few seconds, then he pockets his phone and turns to the stairwell door.

“Tony?”

He turns around at Peter’s call, unable to keep an achingly wide grin from spreading across his face when he sees the kid at his door, biting his bottom lip around a smile.

“Text me when you get home?” he says.

“Yes, dear.”

This time, he doesn’t scowl at the endearment.

Next Saturday, Peter lets Tony hold his hand as they stroll around Venice, through winding streets and across canals that sparkle green in the sun.

That night, in a boat on the Grand Canal while fireworks light up the sky above them, Tony asks to kiss Peter again, and Peter says yes. He says yes a lot that night.


End file.
